


and all things nice

by litteringfire (heartrapier)



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartrapier/pseuds/litteringfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mamoru has always been pristine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tokoha

**Author's Note:**

> set post-GC20 where mamoru doesn't get off quite scot-free. written before SG06 soooo a bit off-element

A dizzying smell of antiseptic assaults Tokoha almost as soon as she steps into the corridor.

In the past, she’d made a show of getting herself hurt on so many places as a kid that the smell shouldn’t have felt this foreign and sickening. She would climb trees and drop, she would run and trip, she would jump and slip, and every time her brother would come running with his ever-handy first aid kit, pressing alcohol-soaked cotton on her wounds.

On the other hand, Mamoru has always been pristine. He would never intentionally do things that would give harm to his body; he would always step into anything with caution and care, and the number of occasions where he’d let himself get wounded is close to none.

That’s why having Tsuneto say that’s exactly what had befallen her brother is strange.

Tokoha makes her way around the waiting lounge, and catches the view of the emergency room where Tsuneto’s frantic call has said to come to. Outside, seated on the chairs spread around the unit, are Kamui and the Trinity Dragon.

The four of them were dirty with dust and traces of blood, slumped over the seat with their head hung. The calmest one out of the four is Kamui, who keeps his eyes open and looking straight ahead at the emergency room door as if trying to drill a hole into it.

Looking at the trio like this, Tokoha is near impressed that they’ve managed to speak on the phone for her at all.

Kamui notices her approaching steps and raises a hand, ushering her closer. “Thanks for coming.”

“Where is my brother?” Tokoha asks, knowing pleasantries don’t mean anything for them right this moment. Kamui’s limp arm, sinking closer to his crouched torso, seems to agree.

“He is being treated inside right now.” Kamui says, gesturing towards the closed door in front of them with his head. “They should finish soon.”

They have reserved a seat for her on one side; Tokoha grabs the chair and throws herself down, slipping her arms on top of each other on her chest. Kamui gives an amused sigh.

“Mamoru-san told us not to tell you,” Kamui says, thumb pressed on his furrowed brows, “but I think you deserve to know, anyway.”

Tsuneto drops into a _seiza_ on the floor in front of her within the counts of a second.

“I apologise!” he screams, bowing his head deep onto the ground.

Karl and Kei follow suit, taking their position on Tsuneto’s sides. “We are sorry for letting Mamoru-san get hurt!”

Blinking, Tokoha turns to Kamui for answer, finger pointed at the three people seemingly keen on obtaining her forgiveness. It would have been considered a selfish move any other times, but these boys are on their knees and hands, sobbing muffled, daring not to look at her in something akin to fear and devouring guilt.

 “What happened?” Tokoha asks, despite knowing what Kamui will end up saying in reply to her halfhearted question.

“You should talk to Mamoru-san about it.” Kamui answers. It’s merely a statement of Tokoha’s already-made decision.

The door opens, creaking softly. Mamoru is stood by the threshold, his worn, torn up sleeves rolled below his forearms. A dressing covers from both his wrists to his elbows. One of his cheeks is plastered with a gauze and tape, and the tips of his fingers are white. Blisters reach to the back of his hands, halfway into enveloping his entire open skin.

He sees Tokoha first, and glares at Kamui next.

Kamui puts his hands up in a relenting gesture, preparing to drag the other three boys away with him. Before proceeding to leave, he gives a sheepish smile in the siblings’ direction, and says, “Thank you for your help today, Mamoru-san. I will leave you two alone to talk things out.”

“I’m sorry, Mamoru-san!” Tsuneto wails, rubbing at his tears.

It’s quite a sight for Tokoha, who has never expected anything but a grin on Tsuneto’s face.

Mamoru leans down to one of his knees and reaches out for the top of Tsuneto’s hair. He stops before actually pressing down on it, and as much as he attempts to hide the flash of pain within a jolt of a shoulder, it’s obviously the remnants of the burns on his skin that go against his intention.

“It’s no big deal,” Mamoru says, like a gentle embrace. “You guys are safe, that’s all that matters.”

That, similarly with Tokoha, does not seem to sit well with Tsuneto; from Kei and Karl’s twin frown, Tokoha can see the dissatisfaction, too.

But Mamoru gives Kamui a nod, and the younger man immediately tugs on their collars and pulls them towards the exit. It shuts up the complaints when Kamui says, “Let Mamoru-san rest.”

The corridor becomes silent for quite a while until a bed is hurriedly wheeled from an ambulance by the entrance, and the loud sirens and thumping of shoes fill the air for a considerably long time.

Neither Tokoha nor Mamoru look the other in the eye; Tokoha stares at the bandages binding Mamoru’s arms, and Mamoru suddenly finds the blurred crowd utterly fascinating.

In the past, with their roles reversed, it would be about time for Mamoru to scold his younger sister, and then for them to trace their way back.

“Brother,” Tokoha says, “let’s go home.”

Mamoru finally eyes her, resignedly agreeing. “Let’s.”

Resembling a release, fresh air greets them outside, and hints of anesthetics sticking on their clothes slowly evaporate. The sun is about to sink, painting the sky an orange hue. The road stretches before them, looming voicelessly, despite the murmurs of every passer-by.

Tokoha walks ahead of Mamoru, ultimately leading the way. Without having to turn around, she can feel her brother follow after her without any objection.

She turns, anyway, just to make sure he is still there.

Mamoru is startled by her sudden movement, very nearly tripping on his own feet, his two arms tangled over his chest protectively. Like this, his wounds are stark. The sunset shades them orange. Blood-like.

Her breathing is shallow, her chin lifted up. As she plays with her fingers behind her back, Tokoha says, “Let’s take a detour.”

Being siblings means understanding in a blink. Nodding, her older brother strides to her right. He puts his arms on his sides, now, fists clenching and loosening.

Mamoru walks next to her this time.

There is something alien about the whole thing. Usually it would go like this: Mamoru holding her hands as they pass the bridge, asking if she isn’t feeling well enough to stand, brushing his fingers over her bangs, patting her on the cheek and smiling.

She knows a confident, restless Mamoru, held up with his own brand of beliefs, carrying a collection of smarts in his head to make even his most foolish excuse into something solid. She knows a Mamoru who can do anything, knows her prided big brother.

She doesn’t know a Mamoru who is chewing on his bottom lip, words muddled in his mumbles; she doesn’t know a Mamoru  who is scared to gaze at her.

“Brother,” Tokoha says.

“What is it?”

But he answers the way her big brother would, right to the very cadence of his soothing voice, and it’s the sheepishness glossing his smile that informs her: he is the same Anjou Mamoru. It’s a foreign feeling.

“Do you remember this place?” Tokoha asks, indicating to the public park they’ve arrived at, spread beyond the sidewalk.

Mamoru looks up.

It’s a park unlike no other. A set of swings on one part, its stretching ground made up of sand; monkeybars on another, a couple of children hanging by and chortling; a see-saw behind a spinning board, creaking as it’s left behind. Mamoru recognises it. More precisely, he recognises the giant trees pillaring the corners, one of whose branches is considerably shorter than its neighbours.

“You loved climbing that.” Mamoru says.

Tokoha feels satisfied, somewhat, curling her lips. “The swings are empty, let’s grab them.”

There is no time for Mamoru think her words over; with swings, the early bird gets the worm. His feet move before his mind can even register it, and in the next second they’ve gotten the swings in their holds. They turn to each other; Mamoru’s triumph mirrors Tokoha to the smallest detail, to the faint creases on the edges of their eyes.

While Tokoha is swinging a third of an arc, Mamoru merely lets his body weight push the seat to and fro. Tokoha lets out a yelp when her palm slips on the chain, and Mamoru drives an arm over the space between them without a sliver of hesitation. She laughs an okay and Mamoru sighs a more exasperated but fond okay.

It takes Tokoha a while to broach the topic; she doesn’t immediately say what she’s decided on either, because this waiting period isn’t reserved for only her.

Mamoru breathes in. “So. Where do I start.”

Tokoha crosses her arms with the chains scraping at the inside of her elbows, and says, “How about explaining what gave you those wounds?”

“That’s like asking for the whole story,” Mamoru chuckles, but he goes on to explain, anyway.

The birds chirp as if to signal the nightfall. Children leave with their guardians ushering them out of the silence of the park. Left in this open but private space, Tokoha hangs onto every word uttered from Mamoru’s meticulously crafted recounting, asking him to pause several times, demanding clarifications on points that shouldn’t make sense in her sphere of reality.

“Robots? With actual, functioning weapons?”

“Yes. Thats how I got these burns, you see.”

“Slicing a wall with the weapon you tore off from one of the robots?”

“It was a pretty good knife.”

Mamoru finishes with a warm gaze directed at her, reminiscent of Tsuneto’s wailed apologies, a plea for her forgiveness.

Tokoha finds it caged within her lungs.

“It’s rare for you to be that reckless, brother.”

“It wasn’t recklessness,” Mamoru’s voice is soothing; he’s tapping on her knee, leant sideways on his swing, “it was something that couldn’t be avoided.”

“If you’d been able to keep running, wouldn’t you have tried to avoid the fight?” Tokoha asks, her voice hinting of a tremor. She scratches at her collar, and looks anywhere but Mamoru’s unwavering grin.

Mamoru seems to have come to wonder the same thing. He hums long and low, until finally his answer comes in a shrug and “I don’t know, frankly.”

Standing up from his swing, Mamoru moves to crouch in front of Tokoha, cupping her fingers and stroking on the back of her hand. “Tokoha. There is something I have to tell you.”

If she were to twitch her fingers even slightly, she would feel Mamoru’s dead skin on her nails.

“What is it?”

Mamoru’s smile is sheepish, warm, and overflowing with _love_ and _force_. “One wrong move, and I probably wouldn’t have survived. The line you have to cross for death is thin, so thin that every single move you make decides your fate. Don’t ever step over the boundary. Stay here.”

In a blink, Tokoha processes Mamoru’s words to be a desperate wish. A desperate _need_ for her to get away from whatever dangerous plan has been concocted.

“Brother, don’t you think,” Tokoha whispers, almost amused, “I would be more determined to get involved after being told that terrible things are just waiting to happen?”

Mamoru mirrors her amusement. “You are my younger sister,” he says, caressing on her hand as if she is the one with bleeding wounds, “I shouldn’t lie to you.”

“And you are my older brother,” Tokoha counters, “I’m not going to stay behind knowing someone had hurt you.”

“And I wouldn’t be able to live knowing you can also get hurt from the same thing, Tokoha,” Mamoru’s hands have slipped to press his thumb over her wrist, “do me this one favour.”

“No,” Tokoha has long decided this. The word flows easily, threading itself through the air. “This is the one thing I can’t do for you, brother.”

Vein pumping harder against Mamoru’s thumb, Tokoha sees fear grow inside Mamoru’s eyes. It’s worry that almost makes Mamoru too gentle as he pulls on Tokoha’s warmth.

“At least,” he says, softly, “ _at least_ , don’t go blindly.”

Tokoha stares. “Did you go blindly?”

“...Yes.”

“All right,” Tokoha nods, breathes out, “I will make sure to look both ways.”

“And,” Mamoru says, louder than before, “don’t go without me.”

“But promise me,” Tokoha says, leaning down, “that whatever happens, don’t suddenly force me to leave.”

“I can’t promise you that.” Mamoru says. At Tokoha’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “What I can promise you is that I will keep you safe.”

“Then who will keep you safe?” Tokoha says this sharply, “ _I_ will.”

Mamoru is a kind person. One can hardly see him cornered and on the verge of bursting with heat. But Tokoha recognises Mamoru’s indignation at her words.

“Just promise me,” Mamoru says, at last, after a long sigh, “don’t go without me.”

The dressings on Mamoru’s arms rustle as he moves forward; he winces, a tiny bit.

A weight in her chest lifts, and Tokoha’s eyes sting with fresh tears.

She remembers a time when she cried because the branch she climbed on broke. She remembers Mamoru coming over with more worries etched in his face than the simple childish frustration in her whimpers. She remembers his hands as they traced her bruises, and his voice as he soothed her.

Standing over her, patting on her back, it’s the same Mamoru.

She wants to comfort him the same way he always does for her. But Mamoru doesn’t care for the wounds marring his body; his pain is buried deep inside, in the crook of his heart no one can look into.

Tokoha wants to preserve it, to keep it as painless as she could. She wants to answer to his wishes and give him relief. She wants to lift the burden Mamoru takes off the streets despite being capable of walking past.

Some of these things don’t come together.

As she weeps on Mamoru’s shirt, not caring to be silent, she thinks of forgiveness, of breaking promises, and repeats so many _sorry_ s in her muted whispers.

 

 

 

“Let’s go home,” Mamoru says.

Tokoha closes the application; the voice pauses.

Chrono and Shion wait for her before standing up, their faces cast at the asphalt. The outside air is free of antiseptics, and the scenery is more green and blue than white.

She scratches at the cast hung over a shoulder with one free, unbroken hand. Her friends glance at it warily. It doesn’t matter, for Tokoha; she still has her right arm to fight with, after all. She chooses to flip her phone open, and the voicemail recording loops.

“Sorry, Tokoha, I will be a bit late. There is some unexpected company. Will you wait for me? It will only take a minute. Let’s go home together. Sorry, Tokoha, I will be a bit late. There is—”

“Sorry, brother,” Tokoha says.

She is quiet as she contemplates revenge, looking straight forward even though everything blurs in the face of bloodthirst. Her first step is heavy, laden with guilt. Her second step is less heavy, but solitary.

She doesn’t need to turn around to know that she is leaving Mamoru behind.


	2. Mamoru

The hilt digs into his palm as Mamoru exerts all his strength into driving the knife into the barrier.

It rips itself apart under the pressure of his sizzling weapon, and soon enough a space opens within the thick wall. Mamoru slumps over his knees for a second and tilts his head upwards, catching Kamui’s blinking eyes.

The relief on the younger man’s face distorts into a cringe.

In the silence, a drop of liquid falls into the dust smoke and onto the floor. His breathing is suddenly very loud and deafening to his own ears. Mamoru is barely aware that his shoulder hasn’t stopped bleeding, belatedly noticing the gaping wound on one of his cheeks. Numbness hovers over his mind.

Kamui is taking one forward step at a time, gradually getting closer, but not in a speed fast enough for Mamoru’s current, danger-muddled, standards. Mamoru grabs him by his forearm and assists him in jumping over the hole.

“Mamoru-san!” Kamui gasps. “You’re—you’re injured!”

“So are you,” Mamoru replies, scaling rubbles blanketing their way to exit.

“Mine is barely a scratch!” Kamui is shouting at this point. “We need to stop the bleeding!”

“We can do it later when the roof isn’t falling on us,” Mamoru says, squinting at the invisible stretching corridor, “please, Kamui.”

Kamui grudgingly agrees, gripping at Mamoru’s sleeve as they practically jog out of the rumbling building.

There is barely anything to see but flashes of intersections and debris. They throw themselves on a couple of walls while getting used to the dusty darkness, suffocating and coughing. His shoulder is starting to itch, now, but Mamoru figures he ought not to scratch over the pooling blood.

When they finally get to leap over the pile of beams blocking the exit door, Mamoru very nearly trips on his feet; but instead he manages to lean onto Tsuneto’s shoulders as if it’s the most natural thing to occur.

Breath heaved, Mamoru pretends his fingers are not trembling. “Let’s get out of here.”

Before long, they are already sprinting towards the nearest hospital. To be fair, Mamoru’s goal has merely been “getting as far away as possible from that accursed place”, thus the lack of actual direction. He briefly suspects Kamui for steering them here, and concludes that the three sniveling children on his sides are probably the reason why he hasn’t veered off Kamui’s intended course.

The hospital atmosphere is dense, pressing on Mamoru’s back as they walk. They are a contrast from this pristine white surrounding, and Mamoru believes he is leaving a trail of dust on his wake. A staff directs them to a less crowded corridor at their inquiry, eyeing their battered clothing.

Karl hugs his clipboard closer to his chest and whispers, “I’m so sorry, Mamoru-san,” as Kei sobs, making no attempt to wipe away his flooding tears. Tsuneto, on the other hand, is wailing.

Mamoru turns to Kamui. “Can you take care of them while I get treated?”

Kamui nods without a word, standing between the trio and Mamoru akin to a shield. “We will grab some seats.”

Tilting his head, Mamoru says, “You can just go home. I can take care of myself.”

“We’re staying,” Kamui says, ushering the kids to the seating lounge spread right outside the emergency room. “Make sure not to leave out any of the wounds.”

Mamoru gives a sheepish smile and bops at his sticky hair, pushing on the door knob softly. He pauses midway, and adopts a stern tone, “Don’t tell Tokoha.”

Kamui doesn’t nod, and Mamoru doesn’t wait any longer to enter the room.

The doctor who tends to him is a woman with a gentle character, leading him to the bed with her hand on his back as support. The room is filled with rows of beds separated by curtains, and on one side another door extends into another space. Mamoru glances at it disinterestedly and sits down on the white bed-sheet, careful not to press his hands on the railing.

The doctor is asking him various questions, worry etched on her fingers as the nurse dabs alcohol on his cheek. Mamoru winces slightly at every touch, shutting his lips closed to avoid a groan.

She gives an exasperated sigh, “You didn’t get in a fight, did you?”

Mamoru stares at her. Well, _technically_ , he did, but telling her that would probably get him into more trouble than he already has. “Um...no. Do I look like the sort to brawl?”

She shrugs, as if to say, “fair point,” so Mamoru guesses he offers a rather solid excuse.

Tossing his head upwards to gaze at the ceiling, stretching his arms outwards for the nurse to treat, Mamoru takes in a shallow breath. The air is filled with medicines.

It’s a foreign smell, reminiscent only of the first aid kit stuffed in the top shelf of the living room. He hasn’t gotten injured in years, it must be collecting dust this whole time. This is probably the first time in a very long while that he’s gotten himself harmed, enough to make even his doctor repeatedly question his lack of response to the massive burns covering both his arms.

To be honest, it isn’t correct to say Mamoru isn’t hurting. An abundance of wonders have overwhelmed him, filling him with even more _why_ s to be found within his memories. Its weight lays on Mamoru’s shoulders, drawing attention away from the formation of scabs on his skin. Scrunching nose in distaste, Mamoru pulls his eyelids down.

The ground is a lot like quicksand; it’s swallowing him up. Without even noticing it, Mamoru has been building his base from untrue words, standing on such an unstable ground. Not all those words are lies, but then again, how is he supposed to know which ones are heartfelt?

He knows the people to trust, knows them more than they probably realise. He knows the Branch Chief speaks of Vanguard with love and passion; he doesn’t know if the people from the Association hand him the FICA boxes with similar sincerity.

And he knows Ibuki; that he doesn’t necessarily lie, but instead he layers the truth with debris that need pick-up and a keen eye to inspect the core problem.

And Mamoru knows to believe Ibuki has a goal opposite of Myoujin Ryuzu.

Gritting his teeth, the back of his head aching, Mamoru lets out a trembling sigh. He looks down. His wounds are obnoxious, stark against his otherwise uninjured figure. Suddenly an image comes up to intrude on his flowing thoughts, one of Tokoha, and, as soon as it clears, Mamoru wishes he can grasp at his chest with his tended hand.

Tokoha and blood red are a combination Mamoru is strangely familiar with. His childhood is coloured with various things: jogging after his younger sister, carrying her, sitting down on the porch and biting into a watermelon slice and laughing as she spat out the seeds onto their sandals. It means he’s seen her bleed and embrace the pain with all the life that small body always seems to have.

It doesn’t mean Mamoru doesn’t mind the tears she always seemed to shed before dusting at herself.

Mamoru cannot allow Tokoha to bear the brunt of what he drew himself into.

At least he controls the image in his mind; at least, in it, he can grab onto Tokoha as she reaches out at him. If he were to waver now, the Tokoha in his mind would fail to stop whispering his name desperately, fearfully. He cannot be Tokoha’s pillar for as long as he keeps dabbling with indecision.

He wonders, lightly, if this is why Ibuki insists on silence and barely-half-truths. Sometimes affection means keeping secrets and discarding promises; and sometimes Ibuki gazes at Mamoru with an indescribable softness before facing away, turning around. That’s why Mamoru makes a point of chasing after him.

Mamoru understands how it feels to be kept in the dark.

He breathes out slowly, tossing his head back and getting an eyeful of the boring hospital whiteness.

It will be unfair to Tokoha.

Keeping secrets, holding back information, pretending nothing is wrong—it will all be unfair to Tokoha. She is his younger sister, his treasure. She doesn’t deserve _that_ from him of all people.

Because sometimes love means compromises and honesty.

He wants to sit across the table with her cards scattered on the playmat between them—he wants to see her grin in triumph.

The nurse’s tweezers bind the last tape together. Mamoru stretches out his sore fingers. His hand will probably itch less when it’s holding Tokoha’s.

The first thing he is going to do after getting out of this place is call his younger sister.

“I’m prescribing a salve,” the doctor mentions, looking down to sign on the paper the nurse offers her, “apply it daily on areas of burn. Change the gauze then, too.”

Mamoru nods. “How long will it take until it’s completely healed?”

“Around one month.” the doctor says, “I’m afraid the wounds were quite infected, it may take longer. However, as long as there’s no further harm, it shouldn’t worsen.”

The nurse guides him up briefly and lets go, but not before saying, “Please take care.”

Mamoru half-bows at the two of them and strides to the door, smiling sheepishly. Projecting his hold on the door knob accordingly for least contact, he pulls the door open.

He sees the Trinity Dragon crouched on the ground first, and glances up to catch Tokoha’s eyes next. Kamui has already braced himself for Mamoru’s glare.

Kamui is trying to excuse himself, and Mamoru doesn’t stop him. He may have done something uncalled for, but Mamoru is grateful. There will be another time to pass on his thanks.

 _Sorry_ s unending, Tsuneto paws at his shirt. It pains Mamoru that these children had to experience horror and still feel responsible for another person’s pain.

Tokoha is staring him down, focusing entirely on the out-of-place spots on Mamoru’s exposed skin. Thankfully, she looks too taken aback to immediately say anything. But there are sweats on his nape at the sight of Tokoha’s furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips, and Mamoru’s first instinct is to apologise.

She crosses her arms. The serenity of the corridor is broken by sirens.

“Brother,” Tokoha says, finally, “let’s go home.”

Mamoru exhales, rearranging words inside his mind, chaining them together. “Let’s.”


End file.
